


Secret

by randomcheeses



Series: What if? [34]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomcheeses/pseuds/randomcheeses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The men of Team Mustang find out that their leader has a secret</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon, and the men of Team Mustang (a.k.a. Flamey for Fuhrer) were not happy campers. Every year an order came from the nearest member of the high command, and every year, the entirety of Central Headquarters underwent a thorough spring cleaning.

This year, like every other year, Roy Mustang (newly promoted to Brigadier General) managed to mysteriously be needed elsewhere, leaving his loyal subordinates, (minus Lieutenant Hawkeye who had the good fortune to have the day off) to clean up the office in his stead.

Thus, armed only with dustpan, brush, and in Warrant Officer Falman's case a surprisingly pink feather duster, they had gotten to work.

It was perhaps a quarter past three, when Havoc, cleaning under the newly promoted General's desk, had forgotten for just a second where he was when struck by the urge to stretch. He was promptly struck by the underside of the desk instead, and the oldest pile of paperwork, which rumour said had been there almost a month and was beginning to compost, shifted slightly. For one terrifying moment, those not under the desk thought it would fall, scattering papery doom all over the recently cleaned floor.

Instead, it wobbled alarmingly, discharged a few crumpled pieces of notepaper from the very bottom of the pile and settled back onto the desk with a papery creak.

Breda, who was nearest, picked up the notepaper with a sigh of relief and glanced at it out of curiosity. Then he stared.

"What _is_ this crap?" Breda exclaimed.

"Dunno," said his blond compatriot from under the desk. "What is it?"

Heymans Breda perused the slips of paper with the air of someone attempting to unravel a particularly difficult mystery. "It's poetry. I think."

"You think?" Falman asked as he tried in vain to escape the ever expanding cloud of dust that was currently enveloping his head.

"Really _bad_ poetry," Breda elaborated.

There was a growl from below the desk. "Look Breda," Havoc snapped, "he already skipped out and left us to do all the cleaning, so I really don't want to have to listen to any love letters to General-Girlfriend-Stealer."

"I . . . don't think this was written to the boss," Breda said slowly. "I . . . think he wrote it."

There was a brief silence. Then Havoc emerged from under the desk. "Funny, Breda. Really. Mustang does not write sappy love poetry."

"Seriously, look at this line," the red-head insisted. _"How I long to run my fingers through the spun gold that is your hair/But no, the flaxen beauty is not for me. I do not dare._ You can't tell me that's not his handwriting."

"Flaxen is not the same definition as gold," Falman interjected solemnly. "They are both a shade of yellow, though."

"Yeah, well, you can correct the boss when he gets back," Havoc snorted as he glanced at the crumpled pieces of paper. Then he frowned puzzled. "Wait a minute, this can't be right."

The other men looked at him. "What do you mean?" Breda asked.

Havoc shrugged. "This isn't that old and it's written to a blonde. The boss hasn't dated a blonde in at least the last two months."

"Are you sure about that?" Breda asked. "Wait, how _can_ you be so sure?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because he's requested a driver for all his dates in the last two months," Havoc snapped. "Also known as yours truly. So I can tell you, none of the General's dates have been blondes. It's weird."

"Yeah," Fuery agreed distractedly. "The only blond woman around here is the lieutenant."

Stunned silence ensued as the other men absorbed this observation.

"Uh, no," Havoc said once he'd gotten his brain back.

"Absolutely not," Falman agreed.

"I dunno. Maybe?" Breda said thoughtfully, as he continued to examine the smudged pieces of paper.

"You think?" the others chorused at the over-weight second lieutenant, their disbelief fading.

"Wait, this crap gets worse. Listen to this," Breda said. " _How beautiful in battle, silver and gold. Secret desire, never to be told."_

Falman blinked in puzzlement. "Wait, silver? What does that mean?"

"Oh come on," Havoc scoffed, "he's obviously talking about her gun. I swear, she must polish that thing every day."

"Secret desire! He's obviously too frightened to confess to her." Fuery opined.

Havoc gave him a sideways glance. "Mustang? Too frightened of a lady? No way, man."

"Maybe," Fuery agreed. "I guess you've got a point. Unless. . ." he trailed off.

"What? What?" the other men demanded as Fuery's jaw dropped. "What is it?"

Fuery looked around briefly to make sure that the office door was shut and then lowered his voice, "you don't think that he did and she _rejected_ him, do you?"

There was a brief silence as the members of Team Mustang shared a look.

"No way," Havoc said at last. "No woman has ever rejected the boss."

"We _are_ talking about the lieutenant though," Fuery reminded them, the addendum of 'toughest woman in East City' going unsaid.

They shared another look.

"You don't _really_ think. . ."Havoc began.

"Always thought she'd go for it if he actually. . ."Breda mused.

"It would be against regulations," Falman pointed out, before adding thoughtfully, "of course, perhaps the General felt it worth the risk. . ."

"And she didn't?" Havoc finished sceptically. "Mind you, _this_ wasn't very well hidden. . . if she got a glimpse of his poetry . . ."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Fuery shook his head in sympathy. "The poor General. No wonder he didn't want to stick around today. A proud man like him wouldn't want others to see him with his heart broken."

"Well, that and he hates cleaning unless he's procrastinating," Havoc said.

Fuery ignored him. "The poor General," he said again. "Undone by bad poetry."


End file.
